Page 17 of The Wrong Bride
That made her hot with embarrassment, but she said nothing.
“But I ken ye’ve been living in England, and ye cannot be blamed for what your father made ye do. England must accept that we won’t forget our true and rightful king. The King Over the Water deserves our support.”
“He will never be king of Great Britain, McCallum—or so my father says.”
“Your father, the one who can be trusted to keep a contract?” he sneered.
“That is myuncle,as I’ve told you over and over again.”
He snorted.
“My father is his younger brother. But regardless, they speak often of the futility of going against the Crown. James Stuart can never be king—he’s Catholic. He won’t be accepted now that his cousin George is on the throne.”
“That means nothing. It’s been obvious since the Act of Union that England only meant to keep us subservient to them. Scottish noblemen were denied a place in the House of Lords, though they’d been promised it. Our taxes went up, our privy council was abolished—we were betrayed.”
“But you cannot raise a large enough army—didn’t Sheriffmuir and the failed march into northern England make you see that?”
“The Earl of Mar was a poor leader. We were twelve thousand strong in Perth, ready to march south, and instead he delayed. And delayed. Men deserted over the lack of discipline. We had superior numbers at Sheriffmuir when we met the Duke of Argyll and his supporters. And we were victorious.”
“Didn’t Argyll claim victory, too? I heard there were many casualties on both sides, and nothing was decided.” He opened his mouth angrily, but she rushed on, “You were so young—were you hurt?”
He ignored that. “I may have been young, but Iknew our victory could have been conclusive if Mar would have risked the whole army, but he wouldn’t, and victory was hollow when nothing came of it. I couldn’t march into England for the battle at Preston that ended in surrender. Even when our true king came to our shores, it was too late to matter.”
“I heard the man was ill and left within the month.”
McCallum said nothing, just tore a piece of bread apart like he was taking apart the enemy.
“If you didn’t march into England, were you wounded? If so, you were lucky. You might have been captured.”
“Not so lucky. I had to spend the spring recovering at Larig. I thought I could alter my relationship with my father, but everything became worse.”
He stared into the fire, and the shadows flickering over his face looked harsh and menacing, as if his memories of that summer were terrible. She could not press her luck, not this night.
“So you only stayed with your father the first half of the year after the Rising? What did you do then?”
Those gray eyes focused sharply on her again. “For someone trying to convince me ye’re not involved in my plans for the clan, ye ask many questions.”
The food seemed to settle hard in her stomach, and she sat back in her chair, no longer hungry. “Iam only curious and trying to pass the time. Would you rather I sit here silently?”
“At least then I would ken your purpose.” He pushed his plate away. “Enough of this. We have to get an early start in the morn. Let us retire to bed.”
She’d known this was coming—perhaps part of her desperation to learn something about him was just to put off the inevitable. She glanced at the bed, trying to hide her fear. Fear only showed her vulnerability.
“I already made ye a vow that I would never force ye into what ye’re not ready for,” McCallum said coldly. “I don’t break my vows.”
She had no answer to that. His vow had led him to take her captive—she didn’t trust the strength of his supposed vows. But she couldn’t tell him that. “I will sleep in front of the fire.”
“Ye’ll not. Ye need a good night’s sleep as much as I do. Get into that bed.”
She stood up to face him, gritting her teeth. She wanted to refuse, to fight, but he only had to toss her onto the bed and hold her down and maybe . . . no, she couldn’t let that happen. So she whirled and marched to the bed, climbed in and pulled the counterpane up to her chin. She wished she could protest that there was no room for him, that his big body would crowd her out.
He went to the fire, laid another piece of peat across it, and rearranged his drying garments onceagain. After blowing out the candle on the table, he came to her, a vast shadow against the light of the fire. Riona’s heart was pounding so loudly that surely he could hear it. She wondered if she should have insisted that Samuel share the room with them. She needed a buffer, but there was no one. If she screamed, Samuel would hear her, but . . . would he go against his chief?
McCallum sat on the edge of the bed, and it dipped toward him. She braced herself with a hand, even as he lay down on his side, facing away from her. She hovered there, waiting, looking at the width of his shoulders, and the counterpane he only caught beneath his arm.
“Are ye going to lie down,” McCallum asked with obvious exasperation, “or sit up all night?”
Very slowly, she lay back on her pillow, tense, as if she needed to spring up at a moment’s notice. But nothing happened except that his breathing deepened. Would he really leave her alone?
